


baby let me hand you my love

by ninemoons42



Series: dance for your heart [6]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dance, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Emotional Baggage, Inspired by Music, M/M, Meeting the Parents, Recovery, Slow Build, Slow Burn, boys trying to express themselves with words, emotional tension, hey look they actually talk! they ask important questions!, inspired by theater
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-12 11:03:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12957837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: Finally, finally, Noctis gets the chance to ask Prompto to dance with him.It isn't the ideal setting, but it's the right one -- and he hopes he gets the right answer.





	baby let me hand you my love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Akumeoi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akumeoi/gifts).



The silence in the apartment stretches, and stretches, and it’s not the first time that Noctis laughs softly to himself while wiping away tears, not if he’s only counting the last few hours.

“That is -- nothing short of magnificent,” and Ignis is only a voice over the speakerphone, only an aural presence, and he still sounds out of breath, still sounds like he’s been dancing for his very life, even when the words are distorted by distance, even when the very sound of his breath comes and goes, sometimes too loud, and sometimes lost in the storm that continues to rage outside the windows.

“That’s the track the entire score hangs on,” he says, after a moment. “You know what Luna did? She took it for something like a main theme. And then she went and did like five or six variations and -- she said she was planning maybe a few more, I don’t know how many more, she didn’t tell me. I’ve heard some of them and let me tell you, I can’t wait for her to finish the whole thing. I can’t wait for you guys to hear all of it.”

“I am quite looking forward to it myself.”

“I’m going to call her,” and the weight of his mother, the real flesh-and-blood shape of her in the world, moves away -- off the couch completely, her heels click-clicking urgently across the room to where the oversized heap of her bag is sitting next to the front door, and Noctis watches her rummage in it for a moment before that unnatural blue-white glow streaks across her face and she’s putting her phone to her ear.

He can’t see her face, but he can imagine the gentle intent of her, all brought to bear onto the woman she’s calling.

He can’t see her face, can’t see the smile in her, and he has to fight the very real urge to cross the room -- to follow in her footsteps and sit down right next to her feet. To make himself small, next to her.

Even when she coughs, sharp and short and sustained.

He doesn’t do any of that: he just wraps his green fleece blanket around his shoulders and replays the last five minutes of Luna’s track, though he turns the volume down, so the music seems to whisper in on him, seems to be spontaneously created by the world that spins and storms around him, and he subvocalizes the main melody line as he turns back towards his own smartphone, and murmurs: “Ignis, you still there?”

“Here, and thinking,” is the equally quiet response. “How much of that score does she intend to sing?”

“No idea. Add another one to the list of surprises. You know she likes doing that to us.”

Soft exhaled laugh. “I do remember.” A pause, a breath, and then: “Speaking of surprises -- I am sorry. I may be thinking rather uncharitable thoughts right now.”

“Who’s the lucky target? Because I can think of a few,” and Noctis slumps more heavily into the arm of the couch.

He’s more than determined than ever to hear the soaring notes and the flying cadences of the music that Luna’s been writing for his project: the bright sweep and the power of her voice, and the way she bears down onto the keys of her piano with the strength of her intent. 

And if he keeps her music in mind then maybe he can stay rational and cold enough that the memories from the afternoon don’t conspire to drown him in rage and contempt and an old, old sorrowful hurt, six years in the making -- 

“The meeting? It -- didn’t go well,” Aulea says from across the room.

Noctis is only the first to laugh again -- and it’s a bitter bleak short laugh, this time.

“Do you need me to come over?”

“No,” he says. “Ignis? No. Really no. We want you here but also -- no.”

“Mixed messages again, Noctis?”

“The whole point of Project SISI is so that I learn some of the things that you know, that mom knows, that Aranea knows -- all on my own time, all with my own will, all of my own mistakes,” he says, and he’s so tired as he says it. “You being here: I won’t lie. If you were here and we were working on this together, my life would be so much easier. On the other hand, I’d be trying to shift it all over to you.”

“You’re always so hard on yourself,” Ignis mutters, chiding.

“I need to be. I won’t improve otherwise. I won’t get better otherwise. I know where the line is, I don’t intend to break myself over any of this, I’m just -- you’re always the first person to say I should let myself feel these emotions and then let them go. So let me be frustrated for a bit, okay? And without anyone helping me feel better -- no offense, mom,” and he raises his voice towards the animated conversation taking place next to one of the windows.

“ -- well at least we’re learning things,” Aulea is saying. “We’re all learning here. I hate that that’s the lesson we have to learn but -- it’s like learning how to turn my feet out properly -- ”

And Noctis eyes his own feet and winces, remembering. 

“Ouch,” Ignis says.

“Yeah.”

He’s quiet, and so is his friend.

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” he offers, after a few deep breaths.

“Don’t forget to speak to Aranea,” Ignis says, and then he hangs up with a quiet click.

Freeing Noctis up to check on his smartphone again and -- oh, there’s a new message, and -- yes. 

It’s the one he’s been waiting for, and it says, _On my way up. I thought you didn’t drink coffee?_

He gets up and he crosses to the door, and his mother coughs, once. Turns in his direction, and he can see the slow owlish blink of her eyes. 

He waves at her, and hears her say “I’ll call you back -- I think,” and he smiles and shakes his head and goes to open the door.

And there are footsteps clattering towards him, boots on tile, uncertain and brisk all at once: and then he has the pleasure of Prompto, who is mostly even dry, walking into his apartment.

“Hey,” he says, and leans gently into it when Prompto mostly-deliberately bumps shoulders with him. “You didn’t have any problems getting here?”

“Trick question, right? The cab driver recognized the address you gave me -- this address. He did and I didn’t and -- I didn’t know a damned thing, Noctis, you could have warned a guy.”

He lets his grin turn into a smirk.

And Prompto chuckles, and rolls his eyes. “Oh okay. Message received on Planet Prompto. So that’s how you get your jollies. Hello -- ma’am,” he adds.

Noctis smiles some more when he turns back around, just in time to catch his mother as she rolls her eyes. “I said you can call me by my actual name, didn’t I?”

Prompto catches his eye.

So Noctis wiggles his eyebrows at him.

That gets him a fantastic pout, with all the lines in that freckled face scrunching and twitching to the right, and then Prompto bumps into him again and says, “I don’t know why you said I had to bring you coffee: you said you didn’t drink the stuff.”

“It’s not for me.” 

Noctis takes the paper bag that Prompto holds out to him. Extracts a squat paper cup in striped black and white, topped off with a black plastic lid.

And he goes over and slings an arm around his mother’s shoulders, and kisses the top of her head. “One for the road, as promised. And since you say I have no taste when it comes to coffee, I asked for help.”

She laughs, and shakes her head, and tugs fondly at his hair.

“Come on,” he says, holding Prompto’s eyes until he finally moves forward again, and Noctis throws the light switches as they go, and by the time they’re settled around his mostly-clean kitchen table he can see the details very clearly, washed in warm-hued lights:

The handful of silver strands that his mother leaves in her hair, a decided contrast to the tips that are dyed in deep leaf-green streaks once again. The lines in her face that multiply and deepen as she asks Prompto coffee-related questions. The smile that tugs again and again at the edges of her mouth as she rounds the table to peer up into Prompto’s eyes.

The blush that persists just below Prompto’s eyes, high in his cheeks as he tries to make himself small next to Aulea. The movement of his hands when she reaches out to him and strikes a pose. The grin that turns into laughter, as he holds her steady through a solemn twirl. 

“Thank you, Prompto, I was saying, thank you for this,” and Noctis finally gets to watch as Aulea takes a long, reverent sip from the paper cup. “Oh, that’s lovely. You made this?”

“No, no,” is the laughing reply. “My boss thinks I need to learn how to make better cappuccinos. So that one’s made by her. It’s kind of the specialty of the house, and we make it only when she’s actually in. Otherwise it’s cold brew for everyone, and I -- I’m all right with those, I guess. Kind of idiot-proof.”

“I think I’d like to come to your shop,” Aulea says.

She presses her lips together into a wan thin line for a moment.

And Noctis sighs and reaches for her hand.

“We’re open all night?” Prompto says. “We can all get in Noctis’s fancy car and, like, drive over, right now.”

“As nice as that would be -- I have a flight to catch.”

Noctis doesn’t clench his hands into fists.

He just keeps holding on to her hand, when it lands atop his.

He’s been ignoring the strange warmth that lingers and throbs in her hands, the too-hectic pace of her breathing.

But she’s been showing her symptoms for a week now and -- he can’t, he won’t, let her stay, just because he needs to stay close to her, just because she’s a steady point in his life, just because she likes to cherish him so.

If he wants her to keep on being all these things that he needs in his life, he has to let her go: he has to let her fly away to better places than this, to warmer climes, to sunny days and clean clear skies.

“I -- I don’t understand,” Prompto says.

Noctis chews at the inside of his cheek, and trails along behind his mother, when she crosses the room again and sits down next to Prompto. 

Who leans in carefully, gently, worried lines appearing at the corners of his eyes, and he opens his mouth and says, “I’m sorry, maybe you don’t have to answer that question, I wasn’t asking -- ”

“You were not. I appreciate it,” Aulea says. “But it’s part of the reality that I live in. That Noctis lives in. I understand you’ve become friends. So you should know this, too. Just -- you don’t have to tell anyone else. May I ask that of you?”

“I, I won’t, you have my word.”

“It’s not as bad as you might fear. It’s not cancer. I survived that. But -- the lingering aftereffects of what caused it, that’s another story altogether.” 

She only looks like she’s all right, when she shrugs, when she covers her mouth with her hand and coughs. 

And Prompto extracts a handkerchief from his pocket, and offers it over.

“Thank you, I have my own.” A few more sharp coughs, and Noctis is alarmed to hear the wet edges, the congestion, and he runs for his blanket and piles it onto her shoulders. “This old thing, Noctis,” she says, but he sees her clutch at it anyway. “You’re aware of smoker’s cough, Prompto?”

A jerky nod. “You have it.”

“In a particularly virulent and long-term manifestation,” is Aulea’s reply, and Noctis thinks he ought to be used to the way his gut heaves by now, whenever she talks about her condition. “And it gets worse when I stay in -- well, in places like this. I was born in this city. I love it very much. And I can’t live in it any more, because it’s never going to be warm enough that I can take a proper breath. I can’t stay here for long, and -- well I’m flying out of here tonight.”

“Please go see your doctor as soon as you get over the jet lag. Please, mom,” he says, clutching at one corner of the blanket. 

“I’ve already made an appointment with her. So yes, that’s going to happen.”

“That -- that’s terrible. And it explains a lot,” he hears Prompto say. 

“Does it? No matter. I really must go soon, if I need time to get my things. Noctis?”

He pulls her in close, not really thinking about it, not really caring if he looks strange, when he clings to his mother the way he does.

“Good luck,” she whispers into his shoulder.

When he’s finally persuaded to let her go, he watches her step to Prompto’s side and take his hand for a moment. “Could I possibly ask you a favor? And it’s a big one, so feel free to say no. I won’t force you into anything -- or else there won’t be any more of this divine coffee for me,” and she smiles, only a little strained around the edges.

“What kind of favor?” And Prompto is holding her hand in both of his own, too.

Noctis is not entirely surprised when his mother tilts her head in his direction. 

What she says, however, is an entirely different thing. “It’s Noctis. The favor has to do with him. I -- you don’t need to take care of him, you don’t need to give him advice, what I’m asking has nothing to do with that. But sometimes he needs someone to talk to who isn’t -- me, or the people who’ve known him for a long time. Sometimes he needs a new perspective -- not to follow, just to see with. Do you think you might be able to do that? Talk to him? Show him different points of view?”

And Prompto laughs, softly. 

He blinks, and he sees his mother blink, as well.

“If that’s all you want, then -- I’ll be more than happy to do it,” Prompto says, once he’s caught his breath. “I mean, it’s the least I can do. Long story and you’ve got to go, you said. But -- yeah. That’s what you want me to do. And that’s what he’s doing for me. So -- you want me to do that, you’ve got it. I’ll do it for him. He’s already doing it for me. I’m happy to. I’ll be happy to.”

“Thank you. And -- you’re right, I want details,” Aulea says, with a chuckle.

Noctis makes a round of the apartment with her, to collect all the odds and ends of her brief stay with him -- but all too soon he’s standing at the door and she’s talking to the driver who’s come to collect her, and he bites his lip against his tears. 

“I’ve got the schedule for the next meetings -- I’ll set the alarm clock and everything, so I can video-call in,” she says, briskly. “If you want to send me a reminder message, though, I want you to do it with cat videos.”

He chokes on a laugh. “All the cat videos, I promise. Even the weird ones Aranea likes so much.”

“Yes, please, send me the weird ones.”

Her embrace is strong and warm and tight, and he clutches at her as she scatters kisses into his hair. 

And then she’s gone, and he’s left with the last lingering traces of cappuccino-scent on his kitchen table, the soft wisp of her favorite perfume on his blanket.

He sits on the couch and pats the cushion next to him.

Prompto blinks at him.

But he crams onto the couch and Noctis wraps the other end of the blanket around his shoulders, and he sits, and listens to the hum that rises from Prompto, quiet and formless and wandering.

And he doesn’t think: he hums back, and it’s the theme in Luna’s music. Slow, slow, because he honestly doesn’t have the energy for anything else, slow and far too gentle for the show and for the characters in it.

“That sounds good,” Prompto says.

“It’s the music Luna’s making for the thing. You -- I should send you a copy of the file. It’s incomplete though. She said she was still working on the full score -- I’ll get you a copy of that too. Or we can ask her to play the whole thing for us.”

“I’d love to hear it.”

Prompto sounds so warm.

Noctis can’t help but shift, a little, underneath the blanket, and lay his head on one bony shoulder. 

He mutters apologies as he does it.

“Hey, what?” 

“Sorry,” he says, again, and pulls away. 

Only to be reeled back in, and what’s more, Prompto is curling in more tightly against his side. “There. Should I apologize, too?”

“For what?”

“My point exactly.”

He blinks, and blinks again.

Tries to feel his way down the tangled knot of his thoughts. “You’re really okay with all of this. With me clinging to you. With my mom asking you to do things. My friends are weird and they make the kind of jokes that draw blood. And then this work thing I have that -- that you’ve been really into.” He almost chuckles. “Aranea showed me what you were doing, you know.”

He thinks Prompto’s laughing at him, quiet and muffled. “We only look obsessed. Half the time she’s complaining to me about costume designs.”

“I’m grateful it’s turned into something for you,” he says, “don’t get me wrong. But -- I’m sorry the thing I’m obsessed with is also eating you?”

More laughter.

Hand on his knee.

He leans into that, too.

“The way you say it, it sounds like you dragged me into the whole thing kicking and screaming,” Prompto says, when he’s done laughing -- or when the laughter’s turned into just the occasional hiccup. “Like you kidnapped me and threw me into an endless pit or something, and it was all against my will.”

He plays along, hoping to hear the rest. “I didn’t? It’s not?” 

“You don’t want to think of it as, I jumped straight into it even when I didn’t know what was going on -- and when I did, I kept jumping into it, and jumping into it, and jumping into it? That sounds better. It’s also what I think happened.”

“Why.”

“Because. Because it’s what I want. Because it never stops being interesting: your work and your friends and now your family. Because you never stop being interesting. I -- maybe you know about the thing where I was living next door to the fucked-up kind of interesting for seven years?”

Noctis blinks again, and looks over at the sharp edge in Prompto’s smile. “I’ve never heard you put it that way before.”

He gets a shrug. “What, that it was interesting? Well it was, even when it was also highly, highly traumatic and fucked up. I learned a lot of things, and some of those things were even useful. So I can hold on to those and try to get over the rest. Try to deal with the rest. Sometimes, sometimes I deal with the rest by doing something else. Which is you, in case you wanted me to spell it out. The thing you do. No, that came out wrong. I’m going to start over and you can’t stop me.”

Noctis grins and shakes his head and nudges him with an elbow. “No, I guess I can’t?”

“Ugh,” Prompto snorts. “Five years since I last danced. I missed it. I _missed_ it. And I thought I was going to chicken out and run away again, that day, but then you walked in and, and I forgot all about running. So that’s one thing. Back to the thing I love, and the things that I’ve learned that are relevant to that thing that I love. Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“But I can’t dance like 24/7, you’re only the most obvious example,” and Prompto is rolling his eyes in exaggerated fashion. “You and Ravus. So I’m glad there’s work at the coffee shop, I’m glad I can do things there and Crowe -- that’s the owner, have I told you about her? Well if I have, tough, I’m gonna tell you about her again.”

“I haven’t, so I’m all ears,” Noctis says.

“Cool.” Bright bright grin. “She’s cool, you know? Like really really cool. Her whole family’s really interested in food. Some of them wrote books. Some of them ran cooking schools. Her mom owns a really successful restaurant. But we haven’t heard of them, by which I mean you and I, because they’re not here. The family’s like halfway around the world, and they’re really famous there and Crowe -- is not.”

“Why not?”

“She can’t cook.”

The laugh bursts out of him before he can stop it. “Prompto.”

“Swear, Noctis, she can’t. We don’t have a kitchen at the coffee shop, and I’d ask you if you’d noticed that, except I forgot. I remembered just now, you’ve never been in there.” Prompto’s laughing, too. “We need to fix that, seriously. Anyway. We don’t have a kitchen. We can’t have a kitchen. I can make messes and I can feed myself and -- no. I’m not gonna cook for other people. But Crowe -- if there’s one thing she knows, if there’s one thing she can do better than anyone in her family, it’s coffee. It’s like perfect pitch except it’s for the way she tastes coffee.”

“I don’t know a damn thing about that,” Noctis admits. “Better to ask the lovebirds.”

“I probably should. Ignis seems to like coffee a lot.”

“They both do. Care to guess why?”

“No, I know why.”

Shuffling, again, and he watches as Prompto sticks his feet out of the blanket, and kicks off his boots. “This okay?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks. Where was I? Right. Crowe. Coffee is the thing that she lives on, pretty much in every way you can think of. She’s got a knack for it, and she thinks she can live off of it. Maybe she is, I don’t know, I haven’t even been working for her a year. To me, it’s just the thing she does.

“And me: I’m trying to live is what I’m doing. And there’s the shop and there’s other things, like your project. Your Sisi story. That your story is also related to the thing I like to do best is, is a lucky thing. It’s -- I’m lucky, really, so lucky. I didn’t think dancing could be -- fun. Interesting, like the good and healthy kind of interesting, even when other people think I’m just being obsessed. Present company sometimes included,” and Prompto sticks his tongue out, and then laughs. 

And -- it makes sense.

It makes sense.

Noctis thinks about it, and says, “Fuck.”

“Eh?”

“I’m sorry,” Noctis says, and he’s laughing as he says it, but he’s also trying to sound sincere. “I’ve been eating myself up worrying about you. But, but, I don’t have to, do I? I really don’t. You’re getting on just fine. It’s what Nyx said: you’re okay. Not perfectly okay but then nobody is, so -- you should just keep on doing whatever the hell you want to do.”

“In this case please take advantage of me,” Prompto laughs. “I’m all up in this story of Empress Elisabeth, and sometimes I think I dream about her, and you might as well benefit from what’s going through my head.”

“I will,” Noctis says, and takes a deep breath -- 

Only for Prompto to sigh, and say, “Nyx, huh? He said that about me?”

“He did,” and Noctis doesn’t elaborate.

“Okay. He’s cool, too. I should make him talk to Crowe. She says she wants to put together some kind of, of fund, or whatever, for people who’re trying to get out of abusive relationships. I mean I want to make that meeting happen and then, maybe get the fuck out of the way,” Prompto laughs. “It suddenly just occurred to me they’re scary, like in the good way, like if they decided to do something together it’s going to happen whether we like or not.”

“I need to talk to her then,” Noctis says, softly. “To them. If they do that thing. I’ll support them.”

“Don’t do it for me.”

“That’s not the thing I want to do for you.” 

He doesn’t mean to start that way.

It’s still raining, when he reaches for the nearest lamp, since they’ve been talking in the half-light cast from the kitchen and the foyer -- and that lamp throws green-shaded light onto his hands, onto the blanket, onto Prompto’s checkered socks.

Onto the slight tremor in his own hands.

“Noctis,” Prompto says.

“It’s not about the Crowe thing,” he begins. “I. I just had a question to ask you, about -- about the other thing. The dancing and the project and -- and you, basically.”

“Me.”

Noctis shifts on the sofa until he’s facing Prompto completely.

The blanket falls off their shoulders in the process, and -- Noctis doesn’t question the instinct that makes him drape its length over Prompto’s shoulders. “Better?”

“Wasn’t cold to begin with but it feels nice.” Prompto’s wide eyes nearly disappear in the flash of lightning that blanks out the room. “Noctis,” he says again.

“This thing I’m doing. This thing I go to meetings for. This thing I discuss with you, that I asked you for help with. I never told you what we called it, I mean what its actual name is. Did we?”

Prompto shakes his head, and he looks thoroughly bewildered, and Noctis hurries on: “Project SISI. It’s called Project SISI. We’ve got an official logo and everything, and you probably already know what it is, because we’re dorks and so are you.”

Twist of that expressive mouth, those eyebrows. “Fan. Wings. No, it’s not those -- it’s the star, isn’t it? The thing in her hair?”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “And we’ve got almost everything we need. Maybe we need more sponsors but we’re gonna look for, for non-assholes, okay, because I’m not going to work with shitty people, and we’re donating part of the proceeds to charity too. Almost everything, except for one important bit -- ” 

“You’re Sisi, right?” Prompto asks, then. “The show’s named for your character. But it’s not a show unless there’s a Der Tod. You need a Der Tod.”

He nods, once, and he feels his heart race, feels his throat go dry once again.

He’s shaking as though he’s just performed both sides of Odile’s Coda, or at least a flat-on-his-feet version of the whole thing -- and he’s only ever tried that once, on a stupid dare from Ravus. 

But he has to say it -- he wants to say it -- and he does: “Yeah. I need a Der Tod. I need a dance partner. And I only have one person in mind for that. Honestly, I’ve been meaning to ask, and I’ve blown at least three chances I can think of, and why did that happen? Why did I let that happen? Everything was getting in my way, including myself. But the thing is, there’s no one else I can see in the role. No one else I feel comfortable enough to be dancing with, when we’re talking about these roles, which are so demanding and complicated and so good. You know that. They’re good. Yeah? So -- ”

He offers Prompto his hand. “I saw you getting interested in the whole thing. But I didn’t know if you were interested enough to actually -- do it. Dance. On stage. With me.”

“Are you joking,” and this time when Prompto interrupts him, he sounds quiet and determined and fierce --

He sounds only a little bit afraid. Only around the edges.

He watches Prompto bite at his lip, and then: “Me. You’re working up to asking -- me.” Blink. Blink. “You want me to dance Der Tod.”

Helplessly, Noctis says, “Yeah.”

The silence stretches.

Even the storm outside seems muffled, like it’s holding its breath.

And he wonders if there’s a storm somewhere within Prompto, as well, that he can only see in the passing signs: the rapid blink of his eyes and the swift sharp movement of his shoulders, up and down, only once.

“You beat me to it,” Prompto says, at last.

Noctis watches his own hands clench into fists, shocked for only a moment, before he looks up.

And Prompto is pale and lit up with his own words, which are still falling into the spaces between them: “You beat me to it. I -- was going to kind of ask at some point: you’re making these plans and you don’t have a Der Tod and -- I was actually going to. To volunteer. Is that a thing? Do you think it’s a funny thing? Please don’t think it’s funny. I mean it’s funny but please don’t laugh at me. I -- I want to do this.”

“You do?” Noctis asks. 

Watches as Prompto smiles. 

“You do. You really do,” Noctis says.

So he grabs Prompto’s hands. “Be my Der Tod.”

“I will,” Prompto says, and now Noctis can’t tell which one of them is holding on more tightly.

It doesn’t matter, because he’s laughing and so is Prompto, and relief is that sweet light breath he takes that he seems to feel all the way down into his feet.

Even when Prompto chokes and looks around for a pillow to hide his face in, and Noctis blinks: “What? What’s wrong?”

“Joke’s on me,” Prompto says, but he’s grinning when he says it -- grinning and blushing.

Noctis feels his shoulders sag in relief, but only for a moment, because then his brain catches up with his ears. “What joke?”

“Der Tod in colors,” Prompto says, giggling a little. “I said I wanted to see a Der Tod in red and spangles and sequins and -- Noctis? Please don’t kill me. But now that _I’m_ going to be Der Tod -- I don’t want to wear red and spangles!”

He imagines it for a moment.

And Prompto must see it right in his face because he’s getting smacked with the pillow and with the blanket, and Noctis all but topples off the couch, laughing and laughing and pointing at him with a shaking finger. “Now I really want to see you in red spangles!”

“No no no! Don’t make me! You can’t make me!” Prompto is gasping and laughing and sliding onto the floor, too, red-faced and shaking, luminous.

And so that he doesn’t stare, Noctis laughs and stretches out on the floor next to him, arms flung open wide, and he thinks of all the other Der Tod outfits and laughs his head off: “There was the one with the pink accents, though -- ”

“No pink either, please? Please?”

“I’ll think about it,” Noctis says, just to tease.

“Nope. You’re not gonna. No spangles allowed. No pink either.”

He blinks at the shadows of mirth in Prompto, bent over him to loom even as he’s still shaking.

And maybe Noctis has learned something from tonight.

So he waves to catch Prompto’s attention, then taps that same hand onto his own chest. “Surprisingly comfy, here on the floor,” he says.

Spark, lighting up, in those shaded eyes. 

“Better with this,” is the response, and he watches Prompto wad up the green fleece into an ungainly pile.

He pulls his head up off the floor for a moment, just high and long enough for the blanket to be slid beneath him for a makeshift pillow, and then he settles back down. Wills himself to relax, shoulder to arm to wrist, and shoulder to hip to knee to ankle -- lying on the polished surface and waiting for it to warm, spread out and starfished.

Prompto’s weight settles atop him, his head braced on one arm.

Wiry. Compact. 

Trusting.

Noctis keeps his hands on the floor, and closes his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> ninemoons42 on Tumblr: [@ninemoons42-lestallumhaven](http://ninemoons42-lestallumhaven.tumblr.com/) or [@ninemoons42](http://ninemoons42.tumblr.com/)


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